Prelude in E-Minor
by Colleentj
Summary: An analysis of character that delves into the thoughts of a young, agitated Ashei as she confronts her most powerful enemy- herself. One-shot about girls who should be boys who should be girls, mirrors, and men of valor. R&R.


_Prelude in E Minor_

In retrospect, she figures that it wasn't really her fault that she turned out this way and that she really oughtn't to blame herself. Except it was, because the woman in the red skirts had said that everyone's character was in their own hands, and then suddenly she stops altogether and stares at the wall because maybe it was her fault. The wall is covered in rough wood paneling and there's a scrap of wallpaper that wasn't pulled off completely when they'd soaked the wall and tried to scrub it free of the terrible floral designs. Why would they decorate a mountain fortress with flowers? Odd, odd.

Peering closer, yes, she realizes, yes, it was her fault that she ended up this way. Tired and lonely and punching things when she gets angry. Maybe she should just leave. She always says to herself, just leave, but she never leaves and here she is facing the blank paneled wall except for that one little splendid scrap of flowers and what is she even doing here?!

There's a chop, chop noise as the axe blade outdoors collides with the little dry logs, and that axe blade is connected to a handle connected to a leather glove connected to a worn, red hand connected to an arm connected to a man, a large, broad-shouldered man, and that man is connected to a soul that burns like fire, that burns like it could melt all the snow on the mountain, and then some.

She steps back... takes a long, deep breath. Cold air blows through her lungs because there can't be a fire without any wood and there can't be wood unless her father chops up the trees and her father would be much faster if his daughter would just help. But she knows better than to help because last time she helped she wasn't strong enough and Father yelled at her and she shriveled like a dying plant into the snow. The snow was ice against her pink skin, and then it was nothing because she'd gone numb, and she withdrew inside and sat in the cold stone manor, face in her elbows that were sweaty at the crease, and Father had just kept shouted "disappointment" and she'd cried. And after she'd cried she saw how red her eyes were in the mirror and had turned away because she hated facing herself.

She hadn't been a disappointment at first. Father had said, "What's your name," and she had said, "Ashei," and he had said, "Good and you are..." and she had answered, "Strong." She cut her hair and she dressed in armor and had admired the shine of it against her skin. There had been that sense of pride at the contour of the leather and mail against her chest, her shoulders, her waist. She'd had a sword at her side all of her life, had spent so much of her childhood hacking and slashing at dummies, had trained with bows, cannons, never paying mind to the intensity of the training. It had all felt very natural, and trips out of the mountains, however rare, had always been adventures and Ashei hadn't realized that her father was lying when he introduced her as his "son." And she thought it strange when she first saw a woman because she'd only seen them in drawings, and how soft and delicate they were! Ashei had never paid any attention to gender simply because gender had only mattered when they were breeding animals, and her father had never discussed it with her so she merely saw herself as human and only human, and gender was another matter entirely.

There is another mirror across the hall and now she stops in front of it, staring herself down. Now she knows that she, too, is a woman, but she didn't know it at first.

She figures she started becoming a disappointment sometime when she stopped being a child. Many winters had passed and suddenly one day she looked in the mirror and noticed something she hadn't noticed before. And when she consulted Father about it he just frowned at her and told her to ignore it. But she couldn't ignore it because Father's chest hadn't started changing shape inexplicably, so what would he know about it? But even as she transformed from a girl into a woman Father wouldn't say a thing and he'd still call her "son" even though Ashei knew at that point that girls were called "daughters." But she didn't correct her father because he was tall and strong and hit her when she was bad, and so she kept quiet and even when she looked down one day and saw scarlet she kept the information to herself because she knew Father would be ashamed of her for being a girl.

And she was right. Now she stares back at herself and all she sees is a soft chin and breasts and wide hips, all of the things that Father says she should be ashamed of, and then her fist collides with the surface and she can't see herself anymore and much better. The shards of glass flutter to the tiled floor. Like snowflakes. The chopping has stopped which means Father will be back soon, which means that she must straighten her shoulders and pretend she is a boy for him. Because it has taken her so damn long to realize what she now knows for sure- that no matter what she does, no matter how she tries, no matter how many times she insists that women can be strong, her father will not be able to see beyond the feminine facade. He will never appreciate her strength of spirit, will never understand the turmoil, he will only see her as Woman, and Woman Is Simple, and for that reason she will either be The Simple Woman or she will give herself over to his demands and be The Strong Man.

"What's your name?"

"Ashei."

"Good. And you are?"

"Strong."

And here he is now, stamping the snow off of his boots, a bundle of firewood under one rock-hard arm, and his dark eyes peer at her from beneath the bushel of hair and Ashei stares back, just as she's been trained. But he turns and she turns and she knows that in five minutes there will be a fire in the grate and smoke in the chimney, smoke, too, in her father's pipe, and he will smell of forest and flame. She recognizes the scent of valor and corruption, intertwined in a way that bewilders her yet reminds her of the value of strength. Because as much as her father disgusts her, she has been molded in a way that still evokes admiration in his presence. It's wrong that the father who longed for a son was cursed with a girl that he tried to press into a boy, knowing full well that it would never work.

Because at the heart of everything, Ashei is still a woman, and no matter what she does, she will never be the son her father wanted, and still wants. Maybe if her mother had birthed a boy, or at least hadn't disappeared that night of the snowstorm, maybe there would have been another besides Ashei. A boy that could have been her father's boy and Ashei could have been her mother's girl, and then she wouldn't spend so much time at war with herself, wondering what's wrong with her, and really, what is wrong with her that she often longs for slim hips and a flat chest and lean muscles, merely because she might find acceptance among the one person she's devoted herself to?

It's not fair, none of this is fair, and the carpet on which she treads is threadbare and the house is cold and there's a fire in the grate but the warmth will never reach her. She's beyond that now, beyond her father's sphere of influence, and yet she is his sphere of influence. She is his product and she is her own product. She is two sides that repel and attract each other all at once, construct and deconstruct her from the inside out. She is a girl but she is a boy, and the waves of tumult continue to drag her under, beating her against the rocky shore again and again until she is everything and she is nothing. And it is fair, because after all her father has done to her she realizes that it is her fault. It is her fault that she is torn in two, it is her fault that the house is cold, it is her fault that she can't chop wood and it is her fault that Mother is dead. And it is so very much her own fault that she couldn't have been a boy, even when it is no one's fault, it is her fault. It is always her fault.

The chances of finding someone who sees her as more than just a sad girl-turned-boy-turned-girl are slim. After all, Hyrule is empty of men of valor her father has taught her that.

But still, imagine, she thinks, and even that night when the house is cold and the furs are pulled warmly over her eyes, even then, enclosed in darkness, imagine a man of valor. A man... Or a boy. Sixteen, maybe, like her. And her rampant imagination beckons forth the image of a man who may or may not exist, and this man is somebody who throws his time away to help others, a man who is fearless in the face of danger, a man who is a hero like the heroes of old. This man is a legend (and physically attractive besides that.) He's dressed in layers of chain mail and leather and there's a sword at his hip, and there's warmth in his smile, but maybe a little bit of sorrow, too, because this man has sacrificed so much. He has earned that sad smile and in Ashei's fantasy she is smiling sadly back at him. There is understanding and depth and this man knows what this woman has gone through and this woman knows what this man has gone through because they are people of valor.

Moonlight washes over a patch on the floor and she focuses on that patch of moonlight. Frost creeps around the edges of the glass window and after some thought she lets the furs collapse to the ground and she cracks the window open, sticking her hand out into the open.

The woman in the red skirts told her that everyone's character lies in their own hands. Maybe their fate lies there, too. Maybe fate isn't real at all. Maybe nothing is real. Maybe she is dead. Maybe she was never alive.

But she is alive and she throws the window open and her skin tingles as the cold wind rushes against her bare skin. And yes, she is alive, she is so alive, and nothing is her fault, and there is a man of valor out there and she is going to find him. And then they shall saunter on, man and woman- because she is a woman, and there is no fault in that.

And he will turn to her as they race over the crest of the world, and he will ask what her name is. And she will answer that she is Ashei.

And that she is strong.

**This was inspired by Frederic Chopin's beautiful Prelude in E-Minor, an intimate, melancholy piece that is a pleasure to perform.**

**For those of you to whom I still owe edited chapters: don't worry, I'm working on those. I wrote this on my phone while waiting in the parking lot of the supermarket for forty-five minutes. So, no, I haven't forgotten you.**

**As for the rest of you, yeah, I know I haven't updated MRMR in over a month. I actually have made progress on it. Just very... ****_slow _****progress. So yeah. Don't fret... it's on its way... -_-**

**-Ctj**


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